gaza, i want to see your birds.

i want to see 

them perched 

carefully on antennae, 

soaring through the crux of splitting branches, 

dangling, heavy 

with the bulbousness 

of a summer just 

out of earshot, proven 

by the trill 

glancing off 

the hvac unit as 

it breathes into 

the sheets, cupboards. 

i will only touch 

the linen once. like 

so. like so. want only 

to press into my cortex, 

olfactory nerve. i’ll 

take nothing else. 

i want nothing else 

i bruise you. only what 

you will describe. 

your uvular 

stop. the woman 

from somalia 

did her best 

to teach me. 

my name is deeqa 

she said. deeqa. 

almost have it. 

there is a shore 

like yours in my mountains—a road blazes past 

the water’s trim 

in the furious way 

that all roads must do. 

i can tell you 

about the lilies 

my ancestors chewed,

their hunger given up to the lake. 

in the water, float. 

wash the salt crust 

from your heel. 

the seagulls shriek 

into an abandon 

of sky. i’ll meet you there.